The Spoils of Conquest

by Seth Hunter

  This had been going on for more than an hour.

  ‘They will never be ready in time,’ Nathan declared from his usual vantage on the balcony. ‘We will still be here by nightfall.’

  He was wrong. The sun had yet to reach the top windows of the khan when the sheik emerged from the sanctity of the mescid and miraculously, with one final chorus of moans, groans, curses, farts and belches, all was ready. And suddenly everyone was praying. The camels were strangely still and silent. Even the donkeys were quiet. Nathan glanced guiltily at his fellow ‘infidels’. Stiffly, like a very old man, he lowered his knees to the ground. It seemed disrespectful – unlucky – not to. The others followed suit, though not without surprise – Nathan was not noted for his religious observance. In fact, his views on spiritual matters were less sceptical, more complicated than they might have thought, and he was at least familiar, as the captain of a ship, with the form. Unhappily, the prayer he chose, one of the very few he knew by heart, was not the most appropriate to the occasion.

  ‘Eternal Lord God, who alone spreadest out the heavens, and rulest the raging of the sea, be pleased to receive into thy Almighty and most gracious protection the persons of us thy servants, and the fleet in which we serve. Preserve us from the dangers of the sea, and from the violence of the enemy; that we may be a safeguard unto our most gracious Sovereign King George and a security for such as pass on the seas upon their lawful occasions …’

  Halfway through the second sentence, Nathan knew it was not right. He could hardly change it now, though, and he was damned if he could think of any other. Not one that was any more appropriate at any rate. He increased the pace and gabbled on to the end:

  ‘… that the inhabitants of our island may in peace and quietness serve thee, our God; and that we may return in safety to enjoy the blessings of the land, with the fruits of our labours, and with a thankful remembrance of thy mercies to praise and glorify thy holy name; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’

  And in the end it was not so bad. Tully congratulated him gravely, and even Spiridion gave him an approving nod. It was to be hoped that God had also.

  They left while most of the city still slept, moving with commendable speed through the streets of the old city and out through the Baghdad Gate. Sixty camels and five horses, loaded to the gunwales, as Tully put it, and armed to the teeth.

  In truth, they looked more like brigands than guides. In the interests of personal comfort, and in hope of deceiving any French spy who might be observing their departure, Nathan’s party wore the turbans and flowing white robes of the Bedouin, with an assortment of weaponry that would have done credit to a Mameluke: a short-pattern naval musket slung at the shoulder; a rifle in a holster on the right side of the saddle; two horse pistols, also in holsters, on either side of the pommel; a sword or sabre at the left hip, and a curved and ornamented dagger – their parting gift from Mr Abbott – hanging from a cord around their necks. They rode in a group, near the front of the column, with their camels immediately behind them, laden with baggage and equipment, including powder and shot and what weapons they did not carry about their persons.

  Nathan was secretly proud of their appearance. They looked, he thought, as determined a bunch of desperadoes as ever rode the desert – even poor Blunt with his arm in a sling – and he pitied the poor robbers so foolish as to accost them.

  Immediately ahead of them was the leader of the expedition. The sheik. He had a whole string of names but the only one Nathan could remember was Rashid. Abu al-Rashid something something something. He paid no attention whatsoever to his following. He neither addressed them, nor bestowed a single glance upon them, but stared fixedly ahead as at some distant horizon or destiny. It was impossible to associate him with the chaos and confusion of al-Joumrok Khan. Not for him the chivvying and chastening of lesser mortals. They might follow him or they might not; it was all one to him. He was Rashid the Magnificent, leader of men and of beasts; the hopes and dreams of humankind, the victories and defeats of armies and of navies, the despatches of admirals were as the dust of the desert. Behind him rode his standard-bearer with the great flag Nathan had first seen at the Baghdad Gate. Green silk trimmed with red, ten feet long and six feet broad, with a white circle in the middle emblazoned with the words, in black Arabic characters: ‘There is but one God and Mohammed is His Prophet.’ What else mattered in life or death but this?

  ‘Old Jarvey ain’t in it,’ remarked Nathan irreverently to Tully – a reference to his former commander, Admiral Jervis, since ennobled as the Earl St Vincent, and as proud and pitiless as any Tartar. But even Old Jarvey would have struggled to match the splendid assurance of the sheik. Nathan wished he could command a ship with such con fidence, permitting of no doubt, either in himself or his followers. There was no discussion about the route they were to take, or the speed at which they were to travel. And when he had determined the point at which they would stop and make camp, he instructed his standard-bearer to place his pole in the ground, and that was where it was.

  Unfortunately, from Nathan’s point of view, their first halt was barely three hours after they had left Aleppo – on the banks of the River Coic, just a few miles out of the city.

  ‘Why are we stopping?’ Nathan demanded of Spiridion as the camels milled and pressed around him in an approximation of the earlier scene at the Joumrok Khan.

  Spiridion shrugged.

  The beasts were permitted to graze on the branches of the camphor trees which grew in profusion on the banks of the river. Then they were assembled in a great circle and made to lie on their bellies, hobbled by the thigh and foreleg, forming a rampart of camel humps. Within this protective circle the goods were unloaded, tents erected and fires lit for the preparation of food and coffee. Nathan was almost beside himself.

  ‘How long are we to stay here?’ he demanded of Spiridion.

  Spiridion gave him a look. He did, however, enquire of the sheik’s followers and returned with the news that they were to remain here for most of the day and would resume only when the sun was low in the sky. There was nothing to be done, he said, in answer to Nathan’s protests. For eight hours of the day it would be too hot to travel; they were lucky to be travelling at all.

  Nathan sank to the ground and put his head in his hands. His new servant, Ahmed, kindly erected a sheet of canvas over him to shelter him from the sun and gave him a few camphor leaves to rub on his face as a deterrent against the flies.

  For breakfast they had a kind of pancake with honey and yoghurt and as much coffee as they could drink. It should have been enjoyable, sitting in the circle of camels in the shade of the camphor trees by the river, but Nathan was tortured by a gnawing agony of impatience. He felt that they had delayed long enough. He wanted to be constantly on the move. This was the practice at sea. You might retire at night and arise in the morning to find that you had advanced forty or fifty miles towards your destination, even with a light wind. Admittedly, there were times when you were travelling in the wrong direction, or the ship was becalmed. At such times Nathan would be in the same fever of impatience as he was now, striding the starboard side of the quarterdeck with his hands clasped behind his back and a brow like thunder. Now, he could not even do that; it was too hot. He sulked in his tent; even when Tully and the others went for a splash in the river, he could not be persuaded to join them. He just sat there, thinking of the French soldiers marching, marching – southward across the desert to Suez and the ships that Naudé must by now have waiting for them there.

  Spiridion assured him that no one, not even Bonaparte, would attempt to risk an ocean crossing during the south-west monsoon, when the Arabian Sea, in particular, was lashed by sudden, violent storms and cyclones. And the monsoon would not be over until the end of September.

  ‘They said he could never cross the Alps,’ Nathan reminded him. ‘And look what happened to Italy.’

  Besides, it was already the end of August and the greater part of the journey still lay befo
re them.

  Part way through the afternoon, as they huddled under their scraps of canvas, four horsemen rode in from the East and were ushered into the tent of the sheik.

  ‘I expect they are the Horsemen of the Apocalypse,’ Tully conjectured, ‘and we must prepare for locusts.’

  Spiridion made enquiries and returned with the information that they were scouts, sent in advance of the caravan to report on any problems that lay on the road ahead.

  Nathan was impressed. His admiration for the sheik increased. He approved of scouts. He was less impressed with the news they had brought. There was a great tribe of Rushwans camped across their route.

  ‘They inhabit the wastelands of Syria and take tribute from those who travel through it,’ Spiridion supplied in answer to Nathan’s query. ‘Not so much robbers as sturdy beggars. Still, they are to be avoided.’

  ‘Can we not pay them a bribe?’

  Spiridion shook his head. It was a matter of pride, apparently. The sheik would rather die than pay tribute to a tribe of beggars – his reputation was at stake. So, as the sun began to sink below the foothills, he mounted his camel, his standard bearer in attendance, and they were off again – on a great diversion to the south-east.

  It was a remarkable journey. They began with the setting sun throwing long shadows of men and beasts upon the parched earth, then continued under a brilliant canopy of stars. They rode without pause and for the most part in silence, the only sound the steady shuffling tread of the camels and the rhythmic jangling of the bells they wore on their saddles so that they could be found more easily if they strayed. A little before midnight they came upon a great salt lake, at least two miles wide and more than thirty miles long: dry now, as it was for eight months of the year, gleam ing white under the stars so as to give an illusion of snow, and Nathan indulged himself in thoughts of the Three Wise Men who must surely have followed this same route from Jerusalem as they fled the wrath of Herod. Did they feel the same need for haste, he wondered, or did they accept that whatever they did would make no difference, as it was all written in the stars?

  Nathan wished he had a similar philosophy: one that was more phlegmatic, more accepting of the whims of fate; such a philosophy as Spiridion appeared to have, even Tully. But it was impossible. It must be the Englishman in him, he thought, forever driving his own fate, as if it was a ship or a horse that must do as it was bid, take him where he wished to go. And always with that constant refrain in his brain, like the jangling of the bells on the camels: There is not a moment to be lost.

  At midnight, to Nathan’s immense relief, the sheik called a halt. The standard was once more planted in the dry earth and they made camp for what was left of the hours of darkness. Nathan crawled into his bivouac and was asleep in an instant.

  At dawn they were off again – for the three hours the sheik would allow until it became too hot. This formed the pattern of their existence for the next two days. They moved at the pace a camel could walk, which was about four miles an hour by Nathan’s reckoning, and covered about forty miles a day, making camp in the same circle of camels, always by a watering hole or well.

  Then, on the fourth day out of Aleppo, they reached the desert.

  Ironically, it was safer for them here, for robbers did not care to linger in the desert any more than the travellers they were resolved to rob; they preferred to wait at the approaches or to attack the caravans as they emerged on the far side. But the main problem of the desert, for Nathan and his band, was the obvious one. The camels could go up to twelve days without water, it was said, but the horses needed to drink at least two or three times a day, and the skins they had brought with them from Aleppo, and filled at every watering hole, were emptying at an alarming rate. Spiridion advised leading the beasts for part of the time, but this placed an added strain upon their own endurance. They could all ride well enough but sailors did not do a great deal of walking – Nathan’s pacing of the quarterdeck covered a great many miles in the course of a day, but it was on solid timber, not shifting sand – and by the end of each trek they were quite exhausted, fit only to collapse under the thin scraps of canvas that were their only shade from the baking sun. And even exhausted, they found it difficult to sleep in such heat. It was a shallow, restless sleep at best.

  An added problem for Nathan was the mystery of where they were, and where they were going. To begin with, he took readings with his sextant but, without a chart, it was of little use – he did not know where the desert began or where it ended – and after the first two days he gave up. He was too tired, besides, to even take the instrument out of its box. He was incapable of anything much, save sitting in a saddle or putting one foot in front of another or collapsing under his shelter. He could only trust in the knowledge of their guide, much as his own crews put their trust in him. But it was an uneasy comparison, for he was damned if he knew what he was doing for much of the time, even at sea, and even when he did, he was greatly dependent on luck.

  It was especially hard for Blunt, who had less stamina than the others and was further handicapped by his sprained wrist, but he made no complaint and Nathan’s regard for him increased as they journeyed on. He spoke to him only once at any length – they were mostly too tired for conversation – beginning with an apology for the farce over the camels.

  ‘It is I who should apologise to you, sir,’ Blunt replied, ‘for not being able to serve you as I should.’

  This had the effect of making Nathan feel even worse about the incident. He had a slightly awkward relationship with servants. It was fine when he was on a ship – they were all his servants there, just as he was a servant of King George. He lorded it over them with a total lack of concern. But for some reason it was different on land, especially when there were only one or two of them. Nathan had grown up in Sussex with a household of servants – his father was at sea most of the time while his mother enjoyed the delights of fashionable society in London. So it was just Nathan and the servants for most of the time, and they treated him like the brat he was, chivvying and scolding him, and giving him the occasional box on the ear. The relationship changed, of course, when he grew up but he still felt perfectly at ease with all of them, and even with the more taciturn shepherds and drovers on his father’s estate. But it was different with the likes of Blunt. Partly because he was not a normal kind of servant, if such a creature existed – born to the trade, as it were. He was a captain’s servant, which was something else entirely: a gentleman’s son – Volunteer First Class – enrolled in hopes of advancement to a commission. Again, this would not have mattered if they had been at sea. Most of his rank, along with the midshipmen and even the master’s mates, were gentlemen’s sons and you treated them like bilge rats – kicked them if they got under your feet and threw them overboard if they gave you any nonsense – or had them beaten by one of the boatswain’s mates, if you were feeling particularly indulgent. But when you were trekking across the desert together, and there were just the two of you, and you had almost broken a fellow’s wrist making him ride a camel, you felt constrained to treat him with more civility.

  ‘Still eager to see the Orient?’ Nathan remarked, hoping to draw him out a little.

  ‘Oh yes, sir. In fact, I had just been looking at the stars and thinking about Sindbad the Landman.’

  Nathan regarded him cautiously, lest he was being made game of, but it was too dark to see his features clearly.

  ‘From the Arabian Nights, sir,’ said Blunt, detecting his concern.

  ‘Really? I did not realise Sindbad was a landman. I thought he was a seaman. Rated able, that is – able to hand, reef and steer.’ In the King’s Navy landsmen were the lowest of the low: the pressed men who had never previously been to sea and would much preferred to have kept it that way.

  ‘That was Sindbad the Sailor, sir,’ rejoined Blunt diffidently. ‘But there was another Sindbad who was a landman. A porter, in fact. He just walked about Baghdad with a load on his head, but he would look at th
e stars and dream. And one day he met Sindbad the Sailor, who told him about all his adventures. Which is how we get the stories. And then he gave him a hundred gold pieces. I always thought Sindbad the Landman might then go and have adventures, too.’

  ‘I see,’ said Nathan after a moment. He was not sure that he did. It sounded a very confusing story to him. ‘And was this why you told Admiral Nelson you wanted to see the Orient?’

  ‘I suppose it might have been part of the reason,’ replied Blunt cautiously.

  ‘You come from Norfolk, do you not?’ Most of Nelson’s following came from Norfolk. There was a large clan of them and usually they were as close and tight as the Clan Macdonald.

  ‘Yes, sir. My father is a parson, sir, like Admiral Nelson’s.’

  ‘Is he indeed?’ They rode along in silence for a moment while Nathan digested this information. There was not a great deal he could find to say about parsons.

  ‘And did you ever think about becoming a parson yourself, Blunt?’ he ventured at length.

  ‘Yes, sir. I went up to Cambridge with that in mind.’

  ‘So you were at Cambridge?’

  ‘Yes, sir, at Pembroke College.’

  Nathan had not been up to university. Like most naval officers, he had gone to sea as a young boy – though at thirteen he had been older than most – and he had been at sea ever since, apart from a few short periods of leave. There were moments when it bothered him that he had not had a more general education. He thought he might have liked to study history, or music, or even philosophy. But the moments passed.